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No, this not another ménage a trois but a story of three terribly interesting women, one a fabulous fuck, one joyously manic, and the third, a Simone de Beauvoir gone South: The Three Claires.
Paul and his friend, the intellectual Claire, had been promising to introduce me to the other Claires ever since I moved in next door. But it wasn’t until Mardi Gras that I got my chance, and the introductions came through my managing editor’s wife, Susan Wood, whom I knew as the hippie girlfriend of Diamond Joe, a bartender and acid head in New Orleans in the ’60s. (More about that later.)
After deadline that day, the staff dispersed to parades and stuff in Lafayette or even to New Orleans, three hours away. I went to Mamou for the Courir de Mardi Gras. I went there with Josette, Louise having left Saturday for New Orleans. The afternoon was a bit cool but sunny, so I put the top down. As I think I mentioned, Josette had massive tits but a terrible personality. When I put my hand on her thigh as I drove up the winding highway to Mamou, she pushed it off. A great way to start the afternoon.
In theory, the drunken Courir, with a wagon of fiddlers and accordionists in tow, rides from farmhouse to farmhouse collecting chickens, rice and such for a big community gumbo. In reality, however, a crew of Rotary-types sets up shop in the middle of Sixth Street, where they make cauldrons of gumbos and rice and begin ladling it out long before the Courir arrives.
Of course, Josette wasn’t hungry, and did not want to eat, dance, fuck or drink beer. I guess I should have asked her for a blow job – she seemed to have enjoyed that the week before – but I was afraid if I did ask she would slug me and inflict significant damage. She was bigger than me, after all.
Anyway, I stood in line, picked up a bowl of duck and sausage gumbo and a cup of rice, and spied Susan at a nearby picnic table with a handful of French Teachers – scores of 20-something foreigners, mostly women, teaching French in elementary schools. I ran to the empty seat before someone else could take it. Susan introduced me to a little blonde woman named Claire, a French Teacher from Quebec who lived in an apartment in the old rectory on Ste-Anne Street. Claire in turn introduced me to her friend, a fiery redhead named Claire, a French Teacher from Quebec who lived in an apartment in the old rectory on Ste-Anne Street. Of course, one was just as crazy as the other. Paul’s Claire, the intellectual one, was also from Quebec and lived in an apartment in the old rectory on Ste-Anne Street.
That Tuesday, before I could mumble the few French words I knew the band broke into the Bosco Stomp or something and Claire, the little blonde one, grabbed my arm and pulled me from the bench: “Viens come dance, come dance.” Well, we went to the area in front of the bandstand and danced. I’ve always liked to dance, and this woman was more enthusiastic about it that anyone I ever knew. She followed me perfectly and added her own little turns and twists to the two-steps and waltzes.
My gumbo had long gone cold, but I was having too much fun to care. I managed to finish off a beer and a few spoons of gumbo before Claire, the redhead, grabbed me and dragged me back to dance. She wasn’t quite as good a dancer, but she did have just the right amount of flesh in just the right places to make waltzes interesting.
I was headed back to the table when Josette found me and said she wanted to go home. (Panic!) “. . . so I’m going back with Jean-Paul and Claire. I hope you don’t mind.” Mind?? The big-boobed bitch couldn’t have made me happier. I got to stay and dance with the Claires, Blonde and Red, which I did.
Claire Blonde, as she was called, was pretty, with a tanned trim, athletic shape kept that way by riding a bicycle two or three miles to and from school every day. She seemed to always be wearing jeans and T-shirts that seemed just a bit too small and showed off her fair-sized tits in a casual fashion. She never wore makeup or bras except for school, where she was quite excited to teach the little Cajuns, most of whom had a very minimal command of French. The few kids in her classes who did speak French were her favorites.
On the other hand, Claire Rousse had a face covered with freckles and fiery red hair. She was taller than her friend and while not very pretty did have nice tits and a decidedly comfortable ass. She never wore makeup either, but she did sport a bra under her just-a-bit-too-small sweaters to announce her charms.
La Rousse would later provided one gloriously erotic afternoon. La Blonde took me on a 10-week carnival of singing, dancing, running, playing on park swings and fucking on picnic tables. For a while there, I thought I was in love with her, until I realized I was really in love with singing, dancing, running, playing on park swings and fucking on picnic tables. In the process I was quickly learning French.
Back to Mamou. When the band played canlı bahis şirketleri their final number, the Claires squeezed into my car along with this French graduate student La Rousse had found. It was a bit chilly, which didn’t seem to bother La Rousse and her new beau who were heating up the back seat. If I had put the top up, I couldn’t have gotten all those people in the TR.
We ended up at an oyster bar, the Pearl, where the Claires and the student guy got to chattering away in French. I felt as if the world were a tuxedo and I a pair of brown shoes. Claire Blonde tried to help me out, but it was hopeless. I concentrated on the oysters, eating two dozen. After a while I went to the pool tables in the back. I guess everyone assumed I was going to the men’s room. The poolroom was dark and empty, and I sat facing the wall in the far corner on one of the tables – there were only three – and smoked a cigarette, disappointed because I feared I’d never really get anywhere with either Claire. Just an hour or so ago, it seemed so promising.
“We thought you had fallen in.” It was Claire Blonde. “You’re not angry, no?”
I said I was not mad at anybody, except maybe myself. I felt a bit out of place. She jumped up and hugged me and we enjoyed a really sexy, wet kiss. It seemed to last forever. I touched her boobs, massaging and pressing until the nipples pushed through her just-a-bit-too small T-shirt – and, as I said, she never wore a bra. When we broke our kiss for the first time, she said mmmmm, and reached down to grab my emerging erection. (What’s that thing about oysters?)
Her tits were really nice to the touch, not big like Josette’s or tiny like Louise’s, but just right. I remember her nipples as long and hard. I briefly sucked on them before unfastening her jeans and massaging her pussy through her panties, running my middle finger over her clitoris before slipping my fingers under the elastic and moving through her bush to the edge near her lips and into her vagina, rubbing her clit with my thumb as I searched for her G spot. Claire Blonde was, of course, returning my attentions. I’ve got one hand in her jeans, while the other hand is trying to keep my balance on the pool table. She unbuckles my belt, unzips my jeans and proceeds to give me a most unexpected but terribly sweet blow job.
A public blow job can be awkward – be it an embryo architect in a classroom or a waitress in back of the Blue Bird Grill – but I was enjoying this so much, I just let La Blonde go to work and did my best to enjoy things for awhile. Claire sucked on my cock, up and down, in and out, while massaging my testicles, and she kissed the head and ran her tongue up and down the underside of my dick. It was marvelous, unbelievable. But there was this inexplicable sense of innocence at the same time as if we were two 16-year-olds parked in daddy’s Buick at the seawall. When I finally exploded, she swallowed every drop.
She stood up: “Now you get back to the table and smile.” I obeyed her order. (How could I do anything else?)
We returned to the dining room hand in hand, smiling like high school sweethearts emerging from the back seat of daddy’s the Buick. “I talked him into coming back,” she told the others, and turned to me and winked. At the table, she would grab my arm from time to time and put her head on my shoulder. I had absolutely no idea what to think, but I was thrilled about “my Claire.”
After the French guy’s pals picked him up at the Pearl I drove the Claires to the old rectory on Ste-Anne Street and drove home. I had to work early the next morning. I planned to come back soon.
Because of trials and city council meetings, the next time I saw Claire was late Saturday night. It was my turn to work the Sunday edition. Claire walked over to meet me after deadline at the office. I was hoping to fuck her in the newsroom. Just the thought of such an encounter – the danger and the sheer fun – had me tingling. I think such action was in her plans, too. In fact, I’m sure of it. The sports editor, however, stayed at his desk after deadline doing busy work, and every minute or so would start talking to one of us.
He obviously didn’t want us fucking in the newsroom. So we went out to my car and drove to Ste-Anne Street, where Claire Rousse and her graduate student were fucking in the living room. My Claire suggested we take two of the bicycles chained to the carport, and peddle our way across town to my house. But first, we had to go to the Blue Bird Grill for a late-night breakfast. We also had to cross the bridge and tour the park, stopping once or twice to play on the swings or glide down the chute the chute. And, we taught each other songs. I don’t think either of us could carry a tune, but we sang anyway: Frech, English, Cajun, La Bastrangue, Drunk Last Night, Jolie Blonde, Purple People Eater, and on and on.
All this completely sober.
By the time we got to my house, the sun had been up for a half hour. So, we canlı kaçak iddaa went straight to my room, began sensually undressing each other and promptly fell asleep, her bare boobs pressed against my naked chest and our jeans still on, but with the zippers down.
I don’t know – or don’t remember – who woke up first, but next thing I knew, we were kissing and finishing the undressing. She turned over and opened her legs, and it was my turn to go down on her. I spread her rose petals with my lips. I believe that each pussy has a different feel, a different scent, different contours. Claire was certainly wet, eager, and unique. I was enjoying every bit of her and her differences.
Her clitoris was getting longer and stiffer, and her breath was coming faster. Her hands pressed my face into her and she dug her fingernails into my scalp. After a few minutes of my being lost in her bush, she pulled my hair, and said something in French. I don’t know what she said, but I mounted her, and without teasing or other foreplay – hell we had just spent five or six hours in the arms Morpheus and each other. I slipped into her easily and rhythmically moved in and out. In and out, in and out. As her purring and panting turned to moans, I held her hands to the mattress and turned my strokes into slams, pounding away as she shook with a mock attempt to free her hands. She had wrapped her legs around my hips and as she came. I pressed by cock as far in as I could and exploded, nearly shouting my own joy as I finished.
We lay in bed holding on to each other for about twenty minutes or more before showering. I got a special kick out of her washing my hair, though I wasn’t yet ready to have her shave me in the shower. We cycled over to Victor’s for a soft-shell crab sandwich, then back to the old rectory to pick up my car. After the night and morning and now the afternoon, I was in heaven.
I ached so bad from sex and cycling I could hardly move, but I was in heaven anyway.
Until May, when the French Teachers went home, I think I saw Claire at least three times a week, not always for sex. Every few weeks we went to this roadhouse in the middle of nowhere, off a narrow parish road in the middle of a rice farm to watch chicken fights and dance to Clifton Chenier and his Red Hot Louisiana Band. We went to every honky-tonk from Franklin to Ville Platte to dance to Cajun, country, swap rock and blues.
We sang and laughed as we drove. We ate crawfish in Henderson, Tex-Mex in Lafayette; oysters in Abbeville, crabs in Broussard; duck in Opelousas, and turtle soup in New Orleans. And, as I think I said before, we fucked in playgrounds, parking lots, parks and golf courses. It was too difficult to fuck in a Triumph, though I’m sure it can be done.
For a long while I wanted no strings, no attachments, and I wasn’t jealous, nor did I really care for that matter that my relationship with Claire was not exclusive. She loved life, and sex, and was having too much fun to confine herself to one lover. Only once did I succumb to Shakespeare’s “green eyed monster,” but La Rousse took care of that quickly enough.
A former photographer for the Free Press, Garth Something, was working on the first of his coffee-table books about Louisiana life that would eventually make him known nationwide. He was back in town the first week of April to take pictures of birds – herons, egrets, pelicans. The photographers at the Free Press sang his praises regularly. Tall, good looking, talented and fluent in French, all the things I wasn’t.
As I often did, I stopped off to see Claire Blonde after work. Claire Rousse – who incidentally was from the same region of Quebec as La Blonde – was there alone. She said La Blonde had gone off with Garth to Avery Island to take photographs. When I raised my eye brows and questioned, “photographs?”
La Rousse raised her eye brows and smiled, “Oui. . . photographs.”
This was the point when I got a bit jealous. But I tried to shake it off. It wasn’t as if we had some kind of real relationship. And I’m pretty sure I would have liked to see the nude pictures of Claire – if someone other than Garth had taken them.
I remember just standing there, trying to figure out what to do or say. The pause was just enough time for La Rousse to walk into the kitchen in search of a cigarette or whatever. My thoughts shifted from blonde to red and from nude photographs of one Claire to the decidedly delicious boobs of another. I walked toward the kitchen, went up behind La Rousse and put my hand on the bare part of her shoulder near her neck. She jumped at first, then turned around. She was startled but not surprised, and when I gently pulled her toward me and kissed her, we were on the same page. She was passionate and affectionate at the same time and clearly had an appetite for sex: She liked to fuck as much as her blonde roommate, who was probably doing just that at this moment.
Stumbling into the living area, canlı kaçak bahis and before falling onto the sofa, we shared a long, wet, tongue-filled kiss, a kind I would not experience again for years. She pressed her more than suitable tits against me and I grabbed her ass and pushed her against my erection. She pinched my tongue between her teeth before sending her own tongue deep into my mouth. It was like a serpent.
I just held her, letting my hands walk up and down her back. She moved her hands all over me and her lips and tongue attended to my neck and ear. She let her warm breath blow into my ear, along with purrs and pants. When our lips next met and parted, she put a hand behind my head and held me in our kiss, as her other hand reached for my crotch and began stroking my mounting erection through my trousers. I removed her sweater and unzipped her jeans, and let my hands discover her skin, her ribs, her spine, and of course those tits.
Claire unknotted my tie and undid the buttons on my shirt. She rubbed her hands across my chest again and again. I began rubbing her tits, the nipples stiffening before my tongue could get a taste. Her areolas were large and reddish brown, a color much like the freckles that covered all parts of her body.
We pressed our naked torsos together, kissing and rubbing every inch in a festival of lust – that is about the only way to describe it.
She had unhooked my belt, and pulled down my zipper, before going down to a knee. She pulled my pants and shorts down to my ankles, grabbed my dick and began licking and kissing my testicles and my cock. Of course, I was getting tremendous pleasure from the attention, but the greatest thrill of all was knowing she was getting the same thrill out of this as I was – a thrill that continues to get me aroused thinking about it even now.
I was aglow. Electricity was shooting all through my body. La Rousse had freed all my inhibitions and restraints. La Blonde may have her photographer today, but I have La Rousse to myself this afternoon.
As I was about to explode Claire stood, though not before removing my pants, shorts and shoes. She backed up a step or two and let her jeans fall to the floor. She quickly removed her white cotton panties and was completely, gloriously naked. I remember wanting to just sit down on the sofa and gawk. She looked absolutely fantastic, Playboy fantastic. Really. That firm ass and those freckled tits were absolutely perfect. AND her pubes were fiery red and terribly bushy. (When I saw that nude of Demi Moore a few years ago, I thought back to Claire Rousse.) Her baggy jeans, though the style at the time, did her a disservice.
We made our way to her bedroom – the source of all those moans and groans La Blonde and I would hear in the front room. We fell to the bed and I knelt on the floor and dove into that glorious red bush. It was sweet and moist, and after tasting her love juices I wanted more and more, an insatiable appetite for Claire Rouse. When I moved to take her, she lifted her legs and put her ankles on my shoulders. I thought I would just slide in, but despite her natural lubrication, she was so tight, it was an effort, a most enjoyable effort. Within a few minutes she was on top of me, her legs still on my shoulders. For the next 20 minutes, she seemed to lead us through the first half of the Karma Sutra. Riding me facing forward, facing backward, in a chair.
She was the whole while moaning and groaning and calling out things in French. She quickly reached the “Point of O” for the first time, and the orgasms just kept on coming. I was doing my own moaning and groaning and I was reaching my limits. I guess Claire sensed it.
“Mes seins, mes seins, entre mes seins,” she began. And, to be sure I understood, she added, “My tits. Fuck my tits.” Being the gentleman that I am I couldn’t refuse such a request. So, I moved to straddle her torso ad ran my dick between her firm tits. A wonderful experience, and I came in buckets. She squeezed her tits to keep me between them, while she tried to catch as much cum as she could, which was spraying all over her face.
After a few minutes between the sheets, she wrapped herself in a bathrobe, took my hand and led me to the shower.
I had been in the same shower with La Blonde, but this one was something special. We went through the shampooing and soaping, with special attention paid to the right areas. It wasn’t long before I was hungry for another go. She pulled on my dick until I was as stiff as before, then bent over and invited me to have her as I wanted. The cold spray of the shower in face, I fucked her from behind and then, at her urging, I took her in the ass for what seemed like forever. So tight. So rough. So wonderful.
An afternoon of glorious pleasure. Sensuous and sensual – Seeing her, hearing her, smelling her, touching her and tasting her.
Back home, before I could take off my coat, La Blonde called to ask if I wanted to go have dinner at Josette’s trailer. I declined the invitation. I was too spent to do much of anything. I threw my clothes in the corner, took another shower, ate a sandwich, put Michel Rivard on the stereo, sat back in the sofa and started reading Evelyn Waugh.
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